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birthrightgreenIt's a welcome feeling when my fingers curl around the handle. Familiar. Comforting. I remember the first one she handed me, the first time I wielded it, trying to imitate her movements, jerky, off balance. I was frustrated. She was patient. It didn't help in the end, not really. She was still gone, though I carried it with me, the bone handle cutting deep into my palm where I clutched it too tightly. It was crude, that first weapon, and I couldn't call it to my hands when he bound them and held me down.
I was too stunned at the next. Too frightened of the one after. In too much pain with the fourth. But then came one, and my body was adjusting to what they did to it. It still hurt, but there was the ability to think under the pain, to hate. To rage. To call it in and wrap my hand around it and plunge it deep into his back until he bled as much as I did the first time.
There were others, and people learned. They talked. The plotted, but no one cared enough to stop me. Then he came and there was training and there were teachers. It became a dance in and of itself and separated from the basic needs of survival it became a release. Grace and beauty under the brutality of the movement. Anyone can watch a fencing match and see the beauty, but the grace in the movement of a smaller blade is often lost. Far too often it is used for only one thing, though there are some who can see the beauty in the patterns it can trace on skin as it slices it away. Precision in the cuts. A twist of the wrist. The sure knowledge that the thin blade has done damage no surgeon can repair, slicing a triangle in the heart that can't be stitched closed.
A beautiful instrument ornamented, decorative and deceptively harmless looking, but it delivers death, swift and sure. It's always with me, and there will be none who take what I'm not willing to give ever again.
I was too stunned at the next. Too frightened of the one after. In too much pain with the fourth. But then came one, and my body was adjusting to what they did to it. It still hurt, but there was the ability to think under the pain, to hate. To rage. To call it in and wrap my hand around it and plunge it deep into his back until he bled as much as I did the first time.
There were others, and people learned. They talked. The plotted, but no one cared enough to stop me. Then he came and there was training and there were teachers. It became a dance in and of itself and separated from the basic needs of survival it became a release. Grace and beauty under the brutality of the movement. Anyone can watch a fencing match and see the beauty, but the grace in the movement of a smaller blade is often lost. Far too often it is used for only one thing, though there are some who can see the beauty in the patterns it can trace on skin as it slices it away. Precision in the cuts. A twist of the wrist. The sure knowledge that the thin blade has done damage no surgeon can repair, slicing a triangle in the heart that can't be stitched closed.
A beautiful instrument ornamented, decorative and deceptively harmless looking, but it delivers death, swift and sure. It's always with me, and there will be none who take what I'm not willing to give ever again.
